Spring Perfection

Copyright
© 2013 Leslie
DuBois

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PUBLISHED
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Leslie
DuBois
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I love the smell of spring. To me it smells like hot dogs, linseed
oil, and the tight stitching on a new baseball. Spring brings my favorite
pastime, the happiest time of my life.
But not today.

It is the top of the fifth inning. We, Charleston Preparatory
School, are ahead one to zero. I am pitching a perfect game. It will be my
first perfect game since joining the baseball team two years ago as a freshman.
A perfect game is the dream of any pitcher. I mean, in Major League Baseball
there have only been twenty perfect games ever! EVER! And I was on my way to
getting one as a junior in high school. A perfect game means no one gets on
base. No walks, no errors, no mistakes. Unfortunately, I don't know if this is
possible. My head is not in the game.
It
 
is
somewhere else completely. It is
with Reyna. I made a promise to her and because of this stupid game, I don't
know if I will be able to keep it or not. Of course, the game isn't stupid.
Baseball is the greatest game on the planet. And if you ask my mother, she'll
say this is the most important game of my life. But then again, she'll say
every game is the most important game of my life. That's just the way she is.
It will take too much time to explain my mother. And this isn't a story about
her.

In her defense, this is a special game. It isn't every day that a
high school team gets to have a spring training game with a college team. And
it certainly isn't every day that the high school team beats the college team.
But winning will mean nothing without Reyna by my side.

I look over at her normal place in the dugout where she usually
sits next to Doc. She wants to be a doctor one day so he lets her tag along to
all the games and watch how to take care of different sports injuries. It is
free medical training for her future career.

Today she isn't there and I know why. The reason tears at my
heart. I momentarily step off the mound in order to get my emotions in check.
Most people think nerves are kicking in. They think I realize that it's been
five innings and I have not allowed a single batter to reach first base. But
that is not what is eating away at me like termite in a tree house. I am a bad
friend. I should be by her side instead of worrying about my baseball stats.

I stick my face into my glove and inhale the scent of the linseed
oil. It calms me for a moment and I step back on the mound.

How did I ever get to this point? How did Reyna ever grow to be so
important in my life that I find myself thinking about her instead of pitching
my perfect game?

I shake thoughts of Reyna from my mind and throw out a pitch.

Strike three.

I have survived another inning. Finally, I can retreat to the
dugout and try to get my head together. I try to purge thoughts of her.
 
I try to concentrate. I try to focus on
Carson at bat, but I can't. Instead, I think of how Reyna and I first met.

The day my life changed was November 13th, 2002. It was a Tuesday
in English class which meant reading time. But to sixth grade boys, reading
time was a synonym for a little game we called “Flame it and Blame it”. It was
a highly intellectual game in which a winner was anyone who could fart in class
and successfully blame it on someone else. I was a "Flame it and Blame
it" champion three weeks running.

The nation had just celebrated the one year memorial of the
September 11
^th
terrorists
attacks, yet at
that time, the most serious thing I thought of was how to keep my fart game
winning streak alive. What can I say; I was a pretty superficial kid.

That was the day Reyna Lewis breezed into my life. I couldn't take
my eyes off of her from the moment she walked into the door and handed her
schedule to Mr. Eckhart. Then her eyes scanned the room looking for an empty
seat.

She had a big dark curly afro that bounced as if in slow motion.
She had an arm full of shiny bracelets that played music with each step she
took. I had never seen anyone wear so many bracelets on one arm at one time in
my life.

At the wise old age of 12, the girls and boys of Charleston
Preparatory School were convinced of only two things.

1. Boys were gross.

2. Girls were as boring as watching paint dry on grass.

I was pretty sure both of those facts were engraved on bathroom
doors somewhere. It was almost sacrilege for the two groups to mix at that age.

As Reyna made her way through the classroom, stuck-up blond girl
after stuck-up blond girl refused to let her sit down. Not because she was
black.
But because she was new.
She hadn't yet proven
what social group she belonged. No one wanted to take a chance by including her
and later figuring out she didn't belong. Most people thought it was best to
adopt a wait-and-see attitude.

Reyna lifted her head unfazed and continued walking toward the
back of the class where all the stinky...literally stinky...boys were found.

"You can sit here," I said, offering the empty seat next
to me. I heard my voice before I even thought the words.

Reyna looked at me and smiled. Suddenly my mouth went dry and my
legs turned to putty. Thank goodness I was sitting down.

She sat down next to me and asked what I was reading. At least, I
think that's what she said. The rest of class was a blur. All I remember was
sitting next to her during lunch that day.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked as we sat
in the cafeteria.

I shrugged. I really didn't know why. I had never sat with a girl
at lunch.
Ever.
Something about Reyna just felt right
though.

She smiled again and I felt that funny feeling. If she kept
smiling at me like that I might not be able to walk again. "That's okay.
You don't have to explain. I don't think I've ever eaten a meal with a white
person before. I just feel comfortable with you, though."

"You mean
,
you don't know any white
people?"

"I've spent most of my life in Puerto Rico."

"You're Spanish? You're black and Spanish just like Roberto
Clemente."

She started babbling rapidly in Spanish. When she noticed my
confused look, she stopped short and covered her mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just really excited you knew about
Roberto Clemente. I love baseball."

A girl who loved baseball? This was going to be an amazing
friendship.

Just then my cell phone buzzed. Cell phones weren't exactly
allowed at Charleston Prep for most people. But I was Scott Kincaid. I wasn't
most people. A lot of exceptions were made for me.

I dismissed the call and stuffed the phone into my pocket. I
couldn't deal with my mother right now. She was probably just calling to yell
at me for not finishing my workout that morning or calling to remind me to run
extra laps after school.

"You don't want to answer that?" my new friend asked.

I rolled my eyes. "It's just my mother. She'll have plenty of
time to yell at me later. Right now I'm trying to eat."

Reyna looked concerned. It was like she could somehow feel the
pain in the relationship between my mother and me.

"In my village in Puerto Rico, there was an old woman
nicknamed La Cienega who once told me that someone can only make you unhappy if
you let them."

I thought about this for a second. No one had ever put it that way
before. And three different therapists had tried.

"Is that why you were able to smile even though those girls
in class rejected you?"

"That wasn't my smile. That was La Cienega's smile."

I looked at her confused.

"I'll tell you about her later. Not today. You're not ready.
You'll just think I'm weird."

She was right about that. I did think she was weird.
And different.
And exciting.
And unique.
She was the most fascinating person I had ever
met in my life.

We fail to score in the bottom of the fifth. Now it is my time to
go out and keep my perfect game going. As I walk out to the mound, I feel that
maybe I am still that superficial kid from the sixth grade. I like to think
that I have changed a lot, that my friendship with Reyna has made me a better
and deeper person. But sometimes I am not sure.

Now is a good example.

What am I doing here? This is just an exhibition game. It really
means nothing in the long run.

I throw a strike. The batter doesn't even swing. He expected me to
throw high and away like the last time he was at bat. But this is why I am so
good. I have so many pitches in my artillery, they never know what to expect
from me. I have an awesome slider, curve ball and even a knuckle ball. And
don't get me started on my fastball. I've already broken the high school record
for fastest pitch ever thrown.

I retire the first batter then look out into the crowd. I
carefully avoid my mother's eyes. I don't know what to expect from her. Yes,
I'm winning the game, but sometimes winning isn't enough for that woman. I know
she wants this perfect game. It's not like I will get a trophy or anything for
it for her to add to my side of the trophy room at home. Although, I could
totally imagine her going to a trophy store just to create one for me.

My mother wants this so bad because of the publicity it will
bring. I know she thinks that it will help me get signed with a team. But I'm
only a junior in high school. There is no telling what can happen between now
and when I graduate.
And what if I get injured or something?
One stinking ACL tear and my career is probably over. I shiver at the thought.
I don't know what I'd do with myself if I wasn't able to play sports. I love
sports, but always having to win is starting to wear me down like tires on a
race car.
 
It's too much pressure.
Besides, I want to go to college anyway first before jumping into professional
sports.

Instead of looking at my mother I look in the stands at Kimberley
Mierson, my current girlfriend. Why isn't Reyna my girlfriend? I'm not sure.
Maybe I'm too afraid to lose her friendship. Or maybe I'm just plain afraid.